Of Rainy Days and Lightning
by milkmoth
Summary: A series of unrelated Ouran oneshots 10: Haruhi is horrified to realize that she is playing along with Tamaki's family games. TamaHaru
1. Antagonist

a/n:The evil plot bunnies are going to kill me someday…

Anyway! Drabble-esque oneshots! About lots of pointless things. :D You'll probably be seeing a lot of Éclair, because I just feel like there's so much of her character to explore. And I promise lots of different parings… definitely a TamaHaru and KyouHaru but hopefully the plot bunnies will bite with something for the rest of the hosts as well. :) Reviews are appreciated. This was really fun to write.

* * *

Disclaimer:** I** **do not own Ouran.**

At the age of six, Éclair Tonnere knew she was destined for something great.

Most children her age would never even think of greatness. Most six year olds, even those of her own status, had no aspirations further than sneaking a taste of play-doh. But Éclair knew she was better than those play-doh eating, snot-nosed brats. Her parents were the most successful couple in France. They might not be the happiest couple, but they were certainly the wealthiest. She was a princess, and when she became older she would rule as queen.

At the age of eight, Éclair received her most precious possession: rose-tinted opera glasses. She wore them everywhere for weeks. Her parents would joke about their little Éclair and her rose-tinted view on the world. She didn't really see it that way – to her, the opera glasses were a symbol of sophistication.

But perhaps there was some truth in what her parents said. Although she was an odd, cold girl, she tended to have a fantasized view of life. She brushed off anyone who didn't fit in her fairytale. Including her parents.

By the age of fifteen, before she was even formally debuted, Éclair was one of the most sought-after girls in French society. Despite her strange, haunting habit of examining people with her infamous opera glasses, she was considered beautiful. And so very mature. She looked older than she was, and acted so.

Marriage offers barraged the Tonnere household. Éclair wouldn't bother to so much as reply. She would peer at boys through her glasses, but would silently decide they didn't fit. Her prince would be blonde, intelligent, considerate, accomplished, blue-eyed, well-bred, and, most of all, warm-hearted.

At the age of sixteen, only a few weeks after her parents had begun to pressure her to take up one of the betrothal offers, Éclair found such a man.

She did not _find _him exactly, she heard about him. But she knew it: he was the prince she sought.

She was speaking with some woman, some former associates of her parents. They were aristocracy who had fallen onto hard times years ago. Her parents really were just being charitable (this family, as well as the rest of their social circle knew it) by inviting them to visit.

The woman – more a frail girl – Éclair spoke with was their grown daughter. She had been rather intrigued by her, as she'd heard whispers flung around concerning her.

"You're just about my son's age."

The woman was surprisingly kind and soft. Éclair, studying her through her opera glasses, decided that she liked her. She smiled her slight smile, a smile that was genuine.

They talked. The woman didn't have much stamina, couldn't even stand for long, but she spoke about her son for hours. And as the woman sat, dreamily staring out the window, Éclair asked her:

"Is he really that kind of a gentleman?"

The woman answered softly that he really, truly was.

Éclair announced to her parents that night that she was ready to marry.

* * *

He was wonderful.

It was under his grandmother's influence, but Éclair liked to believe that he would have been chivalrous anyway. She looked at him closely, more closely than she looked at most, through her glasses. His expression was perplexed, as everyone's was at first, but he smiled and she smiled back.

He tried to lead her around the grounds, but Éclair wasn't interested. Her Japanese was good, but it didn't come naturally like her French, or even her well-polished English. Girls whispered, boys stared. She felt out of place, especially among his club members. They detested her right away, she could tell. Not that she cared.

Right away, she knew it was presumptuous of her to walk into their happy scene.

* * *

For a moment, she was on top of the world.

She was going to marry him.

She was a princess, he was her prince.

Everything was perfect.

But only for a moment.

* * *

His piano playing was like magic. She felt a surge go through her veins, a surge of hope. What she hoped for she didn't know – a girl like her had little to wish for – but she knew the feeling well.

That little fox. She ruined everything.

* * *

She stripped down, let her clothing fall to her feet. She was thin, too thin. She stepped into the shower and turned the pretty little knob. Cold water sprinkled down.

She didn't care that it was cold. Thoughts ran through her mind like wild horses, unable to stop, not letting themselves be tamed. She turned her opera glasses around in her hands and held them up to her eyes. So, Fujioka Haruhi was a girl. And Tamaki obviously cared for her. He wasn't her prince… but if she wasn't a princess, what was she?

She stared down at the water as it slipped down the drain. Just like her fairytale.

* * *

Her arm was restricting his before she knew what she was doing.

He was going to jump, the fool. He was going to _jump off a bridge _for some crazy girl who cross-dressed and was poor and oblivious and ugly.

But he loved her.

So Éclair let him go.

She could feel the tears slipping down her face, regret already screaming in her veins, but she let him go.

"_Arigatou."_

He smiled at her one last time, and jumped.

She never saw him again.

* * *

She threw away her dreams that day. She threw away her rose-tinted opera glasses.

But the fact that he smiled, even at someone like her…

She leaned back in her seat. Even though it was only for a short time, she'd found a prince. He just wasn't hers. She didn't deserve a prince.

She was the antagonist.


	2. Responsibility

a/n: This one is kind of hard to sum up without giving it away, so just read. :D No real specified pairing, anyway. It stemmed from an idea I had, and so I wrote a short not-really-a-story about it. On a minor note: the thing that fell from a window in episode 16 was actually the window itself, and not a vase, in the manga. I chose to go with a window here. Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated.

* * *

_Let's be responsible. _

Responsibility is something they know well.

When his brother blows up, gets out of hand, flies off the handle, Kaoru is always there to rein him in. To act as a balm on the burns.

When Tamaki can't manage things for himself, when he can't so much as coordinate what is considered an average day at the club, Kyouya's there. Punching in numbers and scribbling down plans.

_Let's be realistic. _

Realism is not pretty, sometimes.

Kaoru can't forget how scared he was, for a split second, when the window fell. In that split second, it felt like he was in slow motion; he could almost see the screaming red cuts all over her face and arms. In that split second, before he could even think about it, he had his arms around her and had taken the blow himself . But even in retrospect, when he realized he'd crossed some line, this was a good thing. He didn't care about getting cut himself. He cared about her.

Kyouya can't forget the way her words caught him, can't shake off the way her laugh rang. It isn't often someone is so familiar with him. She _knew _him; even though they'd never gotten close she knew who he was. It made him feel nervous, somehow, but clean. Like she was scrubbing off a stain.

But then, realism gets in the way. And they know they can't speak these feelings out loud, because speaking them would translate to betrayal.

_Let's affirm that we have no chance with her. _

And then, what's the point anyway? When it's so obvious, by the way she looks at them, and then the way she looks at _them. _It's always been Hikaru to hold her, or Tamaki to comfort her. If anyone has a chance with her, it's not the two onlookers. The brother and the friend.

And so they stand. The brother and the friend. They can never tell her those three words: _I love you. _So instead, they communicate with each other –wordlessly.

And they commiserate in the pain of responsibility.


	3. Umbrella

a/n: This takes place, I'd say, in Tamaki's/Kyouya's last spring at Ouran. When everyone's just a bit more aware and mature (yes, including Haruhi!). Enjoy!

This one is Kyou/Haru, and I don't recommend it to those who can't see their Tono hurt. (That normally would be me, but I felt that Tono Torture, to put it lightly, was called for.) TamaHaru lovers, you _will_ get your chapter next!

* * *

He's blushing. From the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair. 

She waits patiently, faintly noticing the water droplets pattering against the windows. "You wanted to speak with me?"

"I-I-I-I-I"

"Hm?"

She just stands there, oblivious for one last, sweet second.

"Haruhi…" for once his voice is awkward in finding its words. "I love you."

The emotion in those three words is so raw that it stings her to hear them.

All she can do at first is blink. Finally, her delayed reaction hits – she goes deathly white.

Sure, she loves him, too.

The same way she loves her father.

After all, that's what Tamaki has always claimed to be. A father. And he's so much like her father – bumbling and kind and warm and loving and -

Her stomach lurches. She doesn't want to do this to him; doesn't want to hurt him. After all, the greatest irony is that she loves him, just not in that way.

She turns and hurries away. Her footsteps echo behind her in the empty hallway. He's left speechless, with only the raindrops to accompany him.

* * *

If only she could love him. 

If only. She tries, but she knows she won't be able to _make _herself.

Haruhi leans her head against the window, letting her forehead touch the cool pane. The rain continues to drum. It doesn't care.

She feels guilty. This is her wake up call to the world – she keeps telling herself she should have seen it sooner, should've built her walls even higher.

Because, she didn't ever want to see Tamaki hurt.

* * *

He raises an eyebrow as she looks out the window, examining the weather with just a hint of worry. 

When he asks her if she'd like a ride home, she doesn't know why she's so willing. It's probably the rain. It makes her sick just to listen to it. And, more than anything, she wants to get out of Ouran. Away from Tamaki. _Now._

Her gut tells her it's suspicious – it's Kyouya, after all, and he's _smiling. _Her mind tells her that it's not a good idea– Kyouya will probably make her pay him back for gas, with one-hundred-percent interest. Her heart tells her that she shouldn't go - unless, of course, she wants to fall in love.

She resists.

"No, thank you."

He insists.

"At least let me give you my umbrella."

She compromises. After all, it seemed that an umbrella would cost less than gas. She can simply borrow it and make her way home, without getting completely drenched. She might _really _get sick, then, and that would be no good.

He holds it before her. She reaches out, but he pulls it away at the last second.

"There's a fee."

Haruhi slits her eyes. _I knew it._

"I get to walk you home."

Her heart takes over and she grudgingly accepts. It runs repeatedly through her mind how odd this entire situation is.

* * *

The walk home is quiet. She's chilled by the cold rain, she's self-conscious, and she's wondering why she agreed to this. She should've just gotten soaked. It would be better than relying on _him_. There's something fishy about this, she just knows it. 

She watches him through the corners of her eyes. He looks amused. Haruhi genuinely didn't expect him to enjoy going home the commoner way, and being chivalrous…

She steals another glance at Kyouya.

She realizes: he's nothing like her father. He's nothing like Tamaki. And that there's something attractive about it.

He's the worst of them all, and yet, in that moment, she knows she should've listened to her rational side, and not brought her damned heart into it.

She doesn't want someone to take care of. She doesn't want someone like her father, although she loves him very much. At the same time, she doesn't want someone who's going to take care of her.

He's never offered her much. But he cares, somewhere deep. And that works just fine.

* * *

a/n: I hope it's mostly in character – just a quiet little oneshot about how Haruhi might realize she loves Kyouya. Using a different sort of logic to get there. 


	4. Rich Bastard

a/n: I'm not confident about using the second person, but I liked it better than using 'she' and so forth. I'm quite fond of this story, because it's a new spin on the 'what if...' glimpse into the future. Kinda-sorta, anyway.

* * *

Slip on the heels, over the sheer pantyhose. 

You don't wince in discomfort at the feel of the pinched, pointed toes. You've grown used to it.

Grab the brief case. Stand silently for a second; let the clock tick a bit. Leave.

On the train, you allow yourself to wonder. To daydream. Did that man who was just speaking have the trace of a French accent? Is that little boy who's dashing by carrying a pink rabbit? Were those two heads of auburn hair that you saw, departing the train? And the unusually nimble fingers of the man next to you, operating his blackberry, raises your hopes until you stare into the face that is absent of glinting lenses.

You shift uncomfortably. That dark-haired man behind you is very quiet, very tall, very familiar. You resolve not to turn around. You tell yourself not to be even think about it, not to torture yourself by getting your hopes up. But you want to retain that hope anyway. And that involves not turning to see.

You turn.

The man was not who you'd hoped he was – he has a nose ring, which, frankly, alarms you just a bit, and his hair is actually bleached in spots. Talk about seeing what you want to see. But he smiles kindly at you. You smile back, even though you can hardly keep the disappointment from showing, and immediately turn around to stare at the other wall of the car.

Hopes foiled again.

You're a lawyer now, which was all you thought you ever wanted. You're well-known and respected. You're rich.

You'd always called them rich bastards, but right now you would give a lot to be their commoner again.


	5. Bitter

* * *

a/n: Woah. More angst. An odd coupling, as promised. Kind of an odd story, all around, but I'm fine with the way it turned out. Not as good as some, but ah well. I'm going to edit and repost my last Eclair ficlet (with ligtning and thunder), because I'm _very _dissatisfied with it. Anyway, please enjoy this one. As always, I like reviews but you don't have to give me one. :)

The day she returned to France, she experienced turbulence, due to the storm.

She didn't notice. She was worn out, numb, and her whole being ached. In the dead of night, when most of the passengers were sleeping, she found herself on the verge of sobbing.

She longed for her opera glasses. It was like she was a child again, and those glasses were the teddy bear she'd never had. Her comfort object.

* * *

When she got home, she felt her temper melting any cold numbness she'd been feeling. And she was nothing but angry. Indignant.

Rain hammered against her empty manor's windows, thunder mingled with her cries, and lightning lit up her otherwise dark room. She allowed herself to sob hot tears, trying to muffle them with her bedspread. When she was out of tears, but still gasping for air, she picked up her pillow and kicked it, punched it, in a manner that she'd never displayed in her entire life. With a kind of physical force she didn't know she had.

She didn't know why it was so satisfying to punch all of her anger into that pillow. It wasn't as if she was pretending it was someone she knew – it was not Tamaki, it was not the girl, it was not anyone.

She knew there was no one to blame but herself.

And, when she'd lost all energy to do anything but lie motionless in bed, mascara stains on her cheeks, she took in a desperate breath.

And screamed.

* * *

About seven years later, Éclair became rather successful. But there was one catch:

She was young and yet successful, very beautiful. Known for her catty ways. But she still didn't have a husband.

Her parents began playing the 'let's-get-Éclair-married' game. They united in their own constant bickering (though they hardly saw each other enough to bicker, which was really for the best) to plan things out for her.

And one week later, they decided they would marry her to the heir of a somewhat small company. They disapproved completely, but he was the only one their daughter would agree to. When they'd shown her pictures, thrusted papers before her, and jogged her memory of haphazard encounters with these company heirs, she'd grown stony faced, as she always did when the subject was brought up.

But when they'd shown her the picture of this young man, some interest had lit up behind her pool-blue eyes. Like a cat intrigued by a toy; reminding them of their Éclair before that awful ordeal in Japan. An ordeal of which they knew little.

The boy had blonde hair and blue eyes, and was known for his skill with the piano.

* * *

And when she'd met him, when she'd entered the building and he'd nodded wonderously her way, she narrowed those blue eyes of hers and puckered her red lips. One word emitted soundlessly from those lips:

"_No."_

Because he hadn't opened the door for her. He had not smiled.

He was not a gentleman.

* * *

Two years later, Éclair was _still _not married.

She sat in a cold, dark meeting room. Rain played a melancholic beat on the roof, on the large window that made up the wall.

She sat across the table from a dark-haired man with glasses. He was weary, he was hard, and there was a familiar sadness in his movements.

So, after the contract had been signed, she leaned forward over the table, rested her chin on her fist, and smiled.

"Yoou lost her, didn't you?"

He stiffened. Éclair kept her pasted smile, but really, she felt a prick in her heart. Why was she doing this? Taunting him? When he'd gone through the same hell she'd passed through?

"Shut up."

She didn't expect to hear something so unprofessional, so crude, coming from such professional, refined lips.

She paused.

But only for a moment.

"Are you in need of a wife?"

He looked at her oddly. She looked at him back.

"No. I do not need a wife."

"You say that because the only wife you think you'd ever need is his."

He looked at her blankly, face washed clean of any emotion.

"Think of it as a business deal. Tonnere and Ootori companies, combined. I'd even throw in an heir."

He considered. But only for a moment.

A wry, pained grin tugged at his lips.

"We can be bitter together," he said sarcastically.

She nodded. She was still smiling, though she felt sick somewhere.

* * *

A year later, the papers were signed.

She didn't feel any excitement, anxiety, or bliss as he sipped the ring on her finger. He didn't feel his heart beat faster when he kissed her.

It was just another business deal.

* * *

They would invite the Suohs to parties, even to their wedding. They smiled and were polite. The Suohs tried to be polite back.

Then, after the Suohs and everyone else left their too-big house, they would cry.

Sometimes, when the house was near-empty, Éclair would scream. Only one person could hear her – and what of him?

He wanted to scream, himself.

_And so they lived. Happily ever after – being bitter together._


	6. Exposed and Forgiven

For: LJ Ouran fanfiction community

Challenge: _Always forgive your enemies. Nothing upsets them more. – _Oscar Wilde

Character: Ayanakoji-hime

Other: Tama/Haru, Haruhi

Rating: K+ (for a bit of language)

Genre: General/Drama (romance?)

Notes: not sure if they do the thing in Japan where the wife adds her husband's name to her own, but let's call it… creative license! 'Hime' means princess. Ayanakoji is the meanie from episode 1. Some reference to the manga. Also, my French is pretty poor…

* * *

Ayanakoji-hime was her name. Note the 'hime'.

Pretty boys were her favorite game.

* * *

For the most part, that's all high school really was to her. A game. Only when she grew older – when she graduated high school, passed through college, and was engaged to the man of her dreams (in other words, a ridiculously_ rich_ man) - did she realize that she walked not on a golden-paved road, but on golden pins and needles. Her life was really a trap, designed to catch the rich and beautiful who were not wary enough to tiptoe around them. Anyone who misstepped was pricked mercilessly by the gossip that ensued.

So, in retrospect, it was better that her feelings had been nipped in the bud for the Suoh boy. Really. He was a bastard – speaking literally, of course. No such crude word would otherwise emit from her glossed lips.

That didn't stop her from hating the commoner dirt that turned him from her.

Please recall that her name was Ayanakoji-hime.

* * *

Ten years.

It had been ten long years. It was no surprise to her, but she had not missed Ouran. Though she would be lying to herself if she said she didn't miss those rose-scented hours with that set of blue eyes. That debonair smile. That knowing gaze. That boyish blonde hair.

In other words, the only reason she was going to this asinine reunion was to see Suoh Tamaki again.

Of course, she had not bothered to track Suoh Tamaki's actions in the past. She had a husband, and the two were very happy. Just not happy together.

But together they went to the reunion. A formal affair of high thread-count linen tablecloths and glorious scented candles at the nicest restaurant in Japan. In previous years, the dinners had been held in London, Paris, and New York. This year, things were being kept rather low-key.

Fast-forward to the night that Ayanakoji-hime was secretly anticipating. Fast-forward to dimmed lights, crystal chandeliers, and a grand, gold-leafed ballroom.

Enter Tamaki Suoh and his bride.

The one girl who managed to unleash Ayanakoji's temper. The temper she tried oh-so-hard to keep collared and chained.

* * *

Fujioka Haruhi's true sex was no longer a secret to any former Ouran student. He was indeed female. A fact that didn't couldn't seem to fit, and yet clicked, in Ayanakji's mind.

Ayanakoji-hime had gleefully awaited the arrival of gossip. After all, this invited all sorts of ways to smear Fujioka's reputation. To cover her in so much dirt that she would never be accepted to study law anywhere in the country.

But amazingly, out of some kind of affection, the Ouran coeds held back. Fujioka's reputation was spotless – and in fact, she was now getting some of the nation's biggest cases. Part from her own talent, part from blushing Ouran graduates who still behaved like schoolgirls in the lawyer's presence.

This enraged Ayanakoji so much that, in the week following Fujioka's graduation from Tokyo U, she tired her best to maim Fujioka's success.

She hired people to lie, to cheat, and to ultimately get the sweet revenge she so craved. But each and every effort failed, bounced right back at her. Holding in her hands plain, black-and-white slips of resignation from various mercenaries, she was only stunned. How could this _commoner _elude her efforts so thoroughly?

The answer came when the marriage announcement did: Fujioka Haruhi and Suoh Tamaki were soon to be wed.

Again, for reasons she could not comprehend, Tamaki-sama had chosen to protect the commoner.

Blind anger teetered off into a quiet point between destructiveness and resignation. Though Ayanakoji-hime was far from resigning.

She was just a little stuck now, that was all.

* * *

And now here she was. In all of her glory. Suoh Haruhi. Ayanakoji's eyes narrowed, for the slightest moment, but at the sight of Fujioka's husband – no, just think of him as Tamaki-sama – she managed to regain her composure.

Tamaki turned her way and his mouth visibly widened – just a bit – as she slipped down into the cushioned chair.

"Good to see you, Tamaki-sama. Fujioka-san."

"Er, Fujioka-Suoh-san."

"Ayanakoji-hime, it's a pleasure to see you," Tamaki standing and bowing slightly. At first, his words were forced, but he seemed to warm up to them. She felt her heart warm with them. It wasn't often one saw a man who treated women of her standing as well as he did.

"But-" he added, raising his head from the bow and looking up uncertainly, "The seat you're sitting in is reserved, I'm afraid. Didn't you reserve a table?"

"Oh, yes, over there," she replied, motioning to the side of the room with her head. Where her husband sat, stumbling his way through a conversation with a girl Ayanakoji hardly recognized. Probably a B-class student. "Just wanted to chat."

"Well, it's, er, good to see you again," Fujioka-_Suoh_-san said, extending a hand and smiling shakily. An awkward situation, certainly. Ayanakoji obliged the commoner and gave her a quick jerk of hands.

There was a short, awkward silence for the duration of perhaps a minute. Tamaki scuttled back into his chair and looked at Ayanakoji – not maliciously, but curiously, like a child who's great-aunt has come to visit for a bit. Not quite sure what to do, a little bit fearful.

Fujioka was not affected by the silence. A waiter came by holding a tray of appetizers. She took two and savored each one, dreamily staring off at the wall.

Ayanakoji didn't take her eyes off of this girl. This commoner. This _dirt. _Rage began to bubble and foam, frothing madly – almost two the point of being visible through her eyes of ice. This pig. This glutton. How dare this commoner, with her simple mind -so easily enticed with a tiny piece of ootoro - win her _Tamaki-sama? _

"Is this…?

"What's _she _doing here?"

An auburn eyebrow quirked, and Ayanakoji turned to see the two twins – Hikaru and Kaoru? – jauntily standing behind her, using one another as support. Giving her a look of disdain, as if she were some kind of bug.

_Water. Humiliation. In her eyes, in her hair, on her clothes. Dripping down her face. Filling her lungs so she can't breath. There's something in her throat. Her eyes squinting shut. There's already water there. Salty water. _

Her eyes narrowed again.

"Hikaru, Kaoru," Tamaki warned. Ah, Tamaki-sama. No matter what, he would always defend her. Because he was a gentleman and gentlemen were gentle to ladies. He would never betray a lady like her _willingly_, would he? It was his bride who had deceived him. Certainly she was just another student – but poorer and more desperate – who'd cross-dressed to get closer to Tamaki-sama. Despicable.

The twin on the right shrugged and stretched out his arms lazily. "Well, Tono, if she, you know-"

"What?" Fujioka stared up at them with big, innocent eyes. She'd finished her ootoro, and was now gracing them by joining the conversation.

"Tono, Kyouya-senpai said he wouldn't be able to come until late tonight," the twin on the left said.

Kyouya?

_Proof. Cold, hard proof. Caught in the act. Exposed._

_Naked._

Her lips pursed.

"Ah! _Mon __ami __préfère! _He works too hard."

"What about Hunny-senpai and Mori-senpai?" Fujioka spoke up.

"They should be here any minute," the twin on the left answered.

"They're flying in from China. Martial arts tournament."

Fujioka nodded with understanding, before spotting something. "Isn't that them over there?"

"Haru-chan! Tama-chan!" called the blonde one – who could've only been in high school. Wait. Was that Hunny…? Yes, of course, there was the tall, dark man next to him…

"Hunny-senpai! Mori-senpai!" Tamaki shouted as he dashed off to greet them. Ayanakoji watched him go, wondering why she'd never seen this side of Tamaki-sama before. He wasn't acting very refined. She didn't quite know what to make of it.

The twins ambled off after him. Haruhi stood to get up, but – from under the table – Ayanakoji grabbed her hand.

Slowly, the brown eyes set themselves on her.

"Yes?"

"Tamaki-sama. I wish you would have stayed away from him." A hiss.

Something filled Haruhi's eyes. Something that Ayanakoji-hime hates with every fiber of her being. And she means that as literally as possible.

It was not contempt.

It was not even disdain.

It was pity.

In that moment, Ayanakoji-hime shrieked. High and strong. It's a siren, an alert, turning every head in the room to her.

Before she knew what she was doing – before she calculated the whiplashes she'll receive from the tongues of the women she calls friends – she flipped the table over. Sugar spilled, wine stained the hardwood; antique china crashed with a terrible clatter and broke with a clash.

Suoh Haruhi sat stunned on the ground. Her beautiful light blue dress was stained with the wine.

Ayanakoji-hime suddenly felt like the suffix 'hime' should no longer be attached to her name.

She had never felt guilty, but she figured this is what it felt like.

Still, she didn't back down. She stood, fists clenched, and looked at the slip of a woman before her. She felt a satisfaction rise from the shame, and a smile crept on her face.

She never thought she was crazy, but she figured this is what it felt like

"Haruhi!"

The voice she knows too well, desperately calling his wife's name.

This time it was wine. And she knew it was coming.

Wine, over her exclusive Chanel dress.

She looked down, horrified. The thought finally comes: _What was she thinking? _

"Did I just spill?" a twin – Ayanakoji doesn't know which – said dryly.

She nearly jumped. Now the cool liquid is slithering down her back. She whips around. _How- how dare he! _The other twin poured his wine down the low back of her outfit.

"Is the princess crying?"

Tittering, from some table behind her, but she hardly had time to hear it. Now she was focused on Fujioka, or, more accurately, Tamaki-sama. Kneeling next to her, enveloping her in his arms. A huge bear hug.

"Haruhi! Haruhi, my darling are you all right?!?"

"I've fine, Tamaki," she replied, her voice muffled. She sounded slightly annoyed.

Ayanakoji's eyes widened to three times their natural size.

_He cares about her._

_He really cares._

She denied it when he protected her the first time, the second time… but now? Now that he's in front of her, giving that common girl the kind of love she could only dream of having…

She could no longer deny that their marriage was some kind of fluke. Some kind of deception that those brown eyes were responsible for.

Peeking from behind Tamaki-sama's broad shoulders are that pair of brown eyes. She wrestled herself out of her husband's bear hug, and the room went silent again.

The pity. It was still there, in her eyes.

Ayanakoji-the-no-longer-a-hime ran out of the room, nearly sobbing.

* * *

Ah, the washroom. Things were different there. People came in and called her name – both friends and enemies, though there really wasn't a difference. For the next month - the next year - each and every one of them would gorge themselves on her misery.

She had finally resigned. Given up.

It was the worst night of her life.

"Um, Ayanakoji-san?"

Ayanakoji flinched. That voice – that sweet, innocent voice. Fuj – no, Suoh-san.

"I just wanted to let you know, that, um, what happened back there? It's okay."

Ayanakoji froze and hoped that she would go away.

She felt like she was on fire, burning.

"I forgive you."

Ayanakoji threw the stall's door open.

"You took Tamaki-sama away." Her voice came out weak.

Suoh-san cocked her head. Her eyebrows knitted together. "Oh."

Ayanakoji looked down at the intricate floor tile.

Then she threw the door shut and sat back down.

"Ayanakoji-san?"

And because she was a fool – and because she'd been forgiven – Ayanakoji just sat and let the warm tears slide down her face.

* * *

a/n: I'm happy with all of the wordplay I used. :D Of course, there's the obvious, but then there's little bits that seemed to fit very well (in my mind, anyway). Of course, I want feedback! The good, the bad, the could-be-improved… anything but flames makes my day. I am soooo burnt out after writing this. -- I'm so sorry if the ending isn't as good as the beginning... still, this is the first piece of work I've been proud of in a while. :)

As a side note… why do I like writing bitches? Oo Does this say something about me? (hehehe)


	7. To Know and to Touch

a/n: I chose to do something with Renge. Mostly because I like to explore any depth that a seemingly depth-less character has. ;D The first few paragraphs were meant to set up for a TamaRenge, (yeah, I know. Cracktastic) one of which I would still like to write, but I decided not to give any real pairings to this. (Oooh, yes, I want to do a KyouRenge too, at some point x3). Instead, this is just an introspective. 'Twas great fun to write. :)

* * *

She was like any other girl, if not a bit more obsessive.

She was like any other girl, who fantasized about love and swooned over beautiful men. Be they in manga, love simulation games, or movies. She had never swooned over something tangible before, and it was probable that she never would.

She was like any other girl, at heart.

Yet despite her favorable circumstances, Renge always knew there was something hollow in her life. Something that separated her from any other girl.

She subconsciously accepted that, if there was any justice in the world, she would never fall madly in love with the man of her dreams. She had too many good things going for her already. She had loving, over-indulgent parents. She lived a carefree life in France, attending classes at its finest all-girls academy. She knew a few girls at school, who she liked and who liked her back.

She never talked about Uki Doki Memorial with them, but her free time was consumed by it. Past the point of being healthy or reasonable. So much that it came to the point where she unwittingly had to choose between Miyabi and the girls at school.

She chose Miyabi.

And she began to feel lonely.

She craved laughter. Laughter that didn't come from her television stereo. That didn't have a distant, tinny quality. She wanted to hug something other than the numerous plushies in her room. She wanted people to accept her for who she really was. Not for the Renge who wore a mask and a straightjacket, the Renge who didn't smile upon first greetings. She wanted people who chose her for _her. _For the Renge who loved moe moe and boys love and who smiled at everything.

She wanted someone like Miyabi, who thought that her less-than-stellar baking skills were fine, that her spastic nature was part of her charm, that, yes, she was an _otaku _and it was not a negative word. She didn't want the girls at school, so wrapped up in their Chanel and their subtle wit.

And so, she lived on for that goal. Even though she had long ago accepted that it was never even in her horizons. She had become miserable. Her only wispy, faint hope was a glowing screen. Her only solace the two-dimensional characters. Even if the sounds were tinny, the words were comforting and in the tongue she loved most.

"I'm so happy… Miyabi-kun," she said quietly to the screen.

* * *

She was not happy at all.

Then came a picture.

When her father showed her thispicture, she felt her interest ignite. It had not so much as flickered within her for years; not even the latest Uki Doki Memorial was able to truly spark it.

That boy. He looked like Miyabi. He _was _Miyabi.

It occurred to her, in a flash of hope, that this was the moment she could love something that she could hold.

He would love her. He would know her as Renge.

And so she flew, cheeks flushed and skirts whipping, to Japan. A land she so loved, but had never grown acquainted with.

She looked again at the photograph. It had been crumpled by her tight grip for the last few hours, and part was slick with her perspiration.

What is this Miyabi's name again?

Kyouya. Oh, yes.

She must remember to call him such when they meet.

* * *

She was dramatically opposed to everyone in the club (other than Kyouya-sama).

A princely character should not be a Cassanova; too cute was _too _cute; and brotherly love was no fun without danger.

Kyouya-sama, of course, kind, generous, caring Kyouya-sama did not need to be anything but himself. Kind, generous, and caring.

* * *

"Because that's not who Kyouya is."

The stone of doubt plopped down into her stomach, grounding her from flight. She needed to accept that this boy was not Miyabi, but Kyouya. A cold calculator. She could not stand anymore; the stone was too heavy.

She fell to her knees.

_Why… why… _was there no one who would be able to accept her for who she was?

"Isn't that all right?"

It was Haruhi, kneeling down to comfort her.

"I think it's fun to really get to know people, to gradually learn who they are."

She smiled.

Renge stilled, and the tears stopped. Still, her lips quivered.

Her shoulders tightened, and she looked down at her hands. Down at the pavement.

And realized.

She was locked in a room of mirrors. She saw things as they were not. She saw what mirrored her own thoughts. And while she was locked in this world, no one else could see the Renge she wanted them to.

She was guilty of inflicting upon others the burden she had carried for years.

She could imagine the distant voice of Miyabi:

_Please, smile for me Renge-chan. You've learned an important lesson, one that will help you._

But did he know her? His voice, his laughter… it wasn't real. He didn't love her. He was programmed to say sweet things, that was all.

With a hack, the locks of her box were cut away.

Renge was not sure, though, that she wanted to venture out.

* * *

The next day, she arrived on the hour sharp to the famed Ouran host club

"Aren't you going back to France?"

But no, she had finally left that house of mirrors. She was not locking people into boxes any longer; including herself. She would stay here. In Japan. Where she belonged; where she was free.

She would stay with her first friend. Haruhi-kun. No, her first _friends. _The entire club. Renge was part of them, now.

Perhaps princely characters could be equally princely to all girls; too cute was _not _too cute; and brotherly love really was just as attractive without any added thematic elements.

_Haruhi-kun, you'll come to my house! And I'll show you my video games. I'll show you who I really am._

She would play her video games for the first time with someone else.

For the first time, someone would know her.

And the laughter would be real.

* * *


	8. Tamaki, Eclair, Haruhi

a/n: Some character sketch sentences, just to (hopefully!) break my writer's block. Tamaki, Haruhi, and Éclair. Maybe I'll do more, but nothing's for sure – this was done on a whim. Enjoy, and remember that reviews are loved! )

* * *

Life is cold and harsh and feelingless. He will never learn this.

_nnn_

His mother had taught him best; loved him best. She had taught him how to love, but she she had left him a little too early, and he is not able to distinguish one kind of pure love from another.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

_L'amour, l'amour - _It's his favorite phrase.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Tamaki loves foreign cultures and unusual customs. He's part French and part Japanese – he has to.

But he loves the common folk the most

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

He wakes up every day and smiles. He loves his dreams, but he also loves the world he wakes up to.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

They call him their king because he's conquered their insecurity.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

He was a light to those around him, and he probably didn't even know it. They would only ever tell him he was their fool.

* * *

"_This house is too quiet."_

And, of course, the empty house does not answer.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

She is a cruel girl. Do not feel sorry for her

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

She takes two dainty bites of chicken before her stomach complains that it is full.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

She stared at herself in the mirror and wished that her eyes were big and brown. It was the first time she'd consciously wished for anything.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

He called her, once. She felt an almost-tear slide down her face.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Only children are privileged. The Tonnere's only child was the most privileged in France. Éclair did not feel privileged.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

She ached for company. It was the first time she'd unconsciously wished for something.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

She is not a nice girl.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Her life is not worse than most people's, really. She had met him. So she doesn't want your pity.

* * *

Haruhi likes plain things and a simple life. Never till she met them did she realize how tired she was of that pattern.

_xxxxxxxxxxx_

(Except when they're kidnapping her, being perverted (_Tamaki_), making her do foolish things, or interrupting her studying.)

(_The variety was still good, though). _

_xxxxxxxxxxx_

The truth is, she remembers very little of her mother. This is frightening – to love so much someone she doesn't know.

_xxxxxxxxxxx_

Love, she hears, plays games with people. Haruhi doesn't have time for games.

_xxxxxxxxxxx_

Patterns make her happy. Three o' clock always comes around without fail.

_xxxxxxxxxxx_

He annoyed her and sometimes made her want to act immaturely.

_xxxxxxxxxxx_

Love is an out of control feeling. Loving one's father, that's one thing. That's natural, reliable, normal. She loves her father very much. Romantic love is a whirlwind, and it's one she'd like to ignore.

_xxxxxxxxxxx_

She loved them all very much, though she was loathe to admit it. Of course, she reasoned, it was the same kind of natural, reliable, normal love that she had for her father.

"_No, Tamaki, you are still most certainly NOT my father."_


	9. Nocturne for the Downcast Dream

_Nocturne for the Downcast Dream

* * *

_

a/n: Now I want to do a piece on Tamaki's mother... Eh, this felt like such a good idea but I had so much trouble polishing it up to par. Tamaki hardly even talks. How can Tamaki be Tamaki without the Tama-speeches?

_Nocturne pour Tamaki _was my inspiration. : )

* * *

It was a big, dusty room. There was a grand piano shining through its dust, and every day Tamaki would come to the big dusty room and try to open the black thing. He was for very long too small, but one day he managed to open it. 

He touched one of the white blocks.

The sound rang out. The beginning of a song.

At 11:20 every day, Tamaki visited the dusty room. It was a sad room, it seemed to him. Sad like his mother. So he opened the heavy curtains that were draped over the big windows and sang songs. The room was still dusty, and it seemed like his voice alone couldn't fill it. But he still tried, and the room responded.

He sat on the piano bench, where his toes just grazed the dusty floor, and touched the keys every once in a while.

"Tamaki?"

It was his mother's voice, faint from down the hall. Only as loud as she could manage with vocal chords that were soft to begin with and weakened by sickness.

And so, he shouted back for both of them. "_Mama!"_

She appeared in the doorway and he ran toward her, to cling to her leg.

"I didn't know where you were," she confessed.

She looked up at her surroundings…. at the room. She hadn't been there for many, many years.

_They stole away here once. To this distant corner of the mansion, once hers, where no one would think to find them. It was not dusty; the windows were open and the drapes then were gauzy white, and they blew in the breeze. She played him a song, and he kissed her softly, and she-_

Her blue-violet eyes got distant, and she straightened up her frail body.

"See! See what a I've found!"

But she did not reply, and Tamaki let go of her leg to stare up at her. But when he did, she glided forward and sat in the bench. Her toes touched the floor. Her thin, graceful fingers lifted the cover effortlessly and set themselves on keys. Her eyes closed.

_A different song this time, the song that he'd sent her. _

Tamaki waited. It seemed to him that he waited a very long time, but maybe it wasn't so long at all. He felt sure that it was longer to his Mama; years of deliberation over whether she wanted to dive back into whatever lukewarm memories this piano held.

A single finger dipped, a single key dropped, a single note rang out.

Then a second note, a third note; it was a song.

When she finished, silence took over the room again.

"Teach me, Mama."

* * *

When Tamaki was a small boy, he realized that his Mama was very sick. That was why she stayed inside most of the time, and never picked him up or ran with him. It was why she retired to her room for naps, and why she shut herself in her room with Doctor every day at 11:20. 

Tamaki had the feeling he should be worried now that she played piano with him instead of meeting with Doctor. But he never asked, and so he never knew. Never knew that his mother had run out of money, and that the blood Doctor had given her did little good now.

Tamaki never knew that part of her condition was heartsickness.

* * *

For a while, there was a dead silence in the house, and then the silence cracked with a laugh.

Both were because of Tamaki.

"_Rene,_" his grandmother pronounced (corrected) as she held him on her knee, and it was the first word since the silence. The way she walked around the house with him in her arms betrayed her pride. "_Un ange," _she told the servants.

_An angel, _Anne-Sophie agreed silently late that night, as she fed her baby, _my salvation. _

His tiny, pale, _beautiful _hand grabbed for her own and she took it in hers. Their two hands were so different. They were the same milk-peach, but his was so full of life. Hers was so breakable.

He cried out a little, still hungry, and she met his baby-big eyes. Two pairs of eyes, just the same shade of violet-blue. He had so much European coloring; what she wouldn't give to see Yuzuru there, as well!

Her grip on her baby loosened just the smallest bit as she felt herself floating away from the situation and into her own thoughts.

What she wouldn't give to see Yuzuru.

* * *

The next day, her guardian angel sent her a message of hope. 

A package.

From Yuzuru.

Holding baby Tamaki tightly on her hip, she miraculously ripped the package open with her one free hand.

Inside the box lay something very small, delicate, and beautiful, accompanied by the letter. Like any lover, she gave it only a glance before grabbing the letter. This, she didn't rip. She put Tamaki down in his crib, then, carefully, hands trembling, she found her letter opener with the Granataire crest _(one of the stupid things they hadn't bothered to pawn off_). And meticulously, hands shaking, she opened the letter.

It was less than a page. Less than a page; the most she'd heard from Yuzuru since she'd given up on Japan's deathly climate and returned to France.

_Beloved Sophie-_

(_**the next two lines were crossed through and barely readible**_)

_-I send all my love to you, and to Tamaki._

_I still wish-_

_I know it's already been a year, but I'll find a way to contact you, at the very least. I promise that I haven't forgotten you, or that what we had wasn't something true. Please believe me, Sophie. I'm so sorry._

_I'll marry you, I promise. But my mother refuses to allow me a divorce. _

_I love you._

_-Yuzuru_

_(Enclosed in this box is a gift and a symbol of that promise, as is customary)

* * *

_

Anne-Sophie's father died; she and her mother were nearly bankrupt.

Anne-Sophie was very, very ill. With something incurable and deadly; something that made her dizzy and wondering whether or not she lived in some kind of sick dream.

In her nightmare, the mansion was bare and empty - there were no longer any servants, and there was no more than the essential furniture. Rooms were empty; during winter they were also cold.

It was like her heart. She could hardly feel a song anymore.

* * *

_Most of the mansion had been closed off, including the room where Anne-Sophie kissed her shame in the breeze and where her baby later played the song of her heartbreak.

* * *

_

On the last day of his childhood (_but not his innocence) _Tamaki found a box.

He had thought it would be very ingenious to hide in his mother's armoire, but when he'd sat down in the dark, amongst her coats, he'd felt it under his hand.

It was very dark in the armoire, but Tamaki was intrigued by the smooth feel of the material and so he cracked the door for just a slant of light.

Tamaki stared at the delicate thing with something like reverence. It was so light, he realized, and it felt like a piece of cloud-fluff in his palm.

It was beautiful - the deep blue of midnight. Embroidered along the bottom edges were constellations and shooting stars; all the fairy-tales and wishes in the heavens.

He opened the box, and out spilled a tinkling melody.

It was a music box, with the tinkling sound that only music boxes have.

It was the music, he decided, of fairytales and wishes; of a quiet midnight dance; and it was the song his Mama had played on the piano.

Hearing it like this – from this music box – was so sad it made him want to cry.

He was not paying attention, and so he started when his Mama quickly took it from his hands and snapped it shut.

"M-maybe we shouldn't play hide-and-go-seek. Go and play with Kuma-chan, all right, Tamaki?"

He looked up on her to find that she had tears streaking her face.

* * *

Mama withdrew into her room, and Kuma-chan was angry at Tamaki for making Mama cry, so Tamaki went to play piano by himself that day. He tried playing the song, but found that he couldn't. It was too sad. He would need to be dying inside, to play something like that. 

That night, he had a bad dream. A nightmare; where he was in a bare, empty room. Completely empty. Ghosts whispered that his own heart would become empty, and he would never be able to feel a song again.

He went to wake his Mama, to see if she'd let him sleep with her.

Next to a half-drunk bottle of wine _(and Anne-Sophie had been instructed not to drink alcohol, because it could ravage her system) _there was the music box. _The_ music box, open on her bedside. It had ceased playing hours ago, but his she had fallen asleep to it. He noticed, now, that there was a little black box inside that box. That box, too, was open.

And on her finger was a diamond.

* * *

He plays that song now. 

While too-skinny arms that are bony and sharp and not _hers_ curl around his neck, he sits silent and pretends that she isn't here. He plays the song. It sounds like Chopin, clean and sweet and romantic. With just a tinge of sadness.

But he plays like a music box, and so the emotion is still there and raw. And he thinks that she must be heartless not to hear it for what it is, must be mechanical not to cry.

But maybe heartbreak only speaks to those who hear it.

He's sure Haruhi would understand


	10. Family of Five

a/n: I wrote this for ourancontest on LJ, and am posting it here for your reading pleasure. ;) It's just a short, 300-ish word drabble, but I think you TamaHaru fans will enjoy it.

_Family of five seeks living space._

The twins were setting something of Tamaki's on _fire. Fire. _

No; _family of five seeks place to blow up_.

Two children and a mommy (the one who was always in charge), a daddy (who only _appeared)_ to be in charge, and two very, very naughty children.

Children.

Haruhi glanced over at her father.

Oh, _no. _She'd just mentally referred to Tamaki as her 'father'. How insane was she, to play along with these 'family' games now?

_Now, when she…_

Another glance to her 'father'.

His blue eyes were so kind.

How would they look on a child?

_Not-not __**my **__child, _Haruhi thought, trying to hide her inner panic as Tamaki let out a screech and the twins began to laugh. _I mean, I'm not a silly hormonal girl, planning ahead to my marriage No, __**no, **__that's not it, it's just…. I just… mean…_

A baby, a blonde, a mini-Tamaki, would be adorable.

But it wasn't that.

Haruhi wondered how those eyes would have looked five years ago, on a younger Tamaki– were his eyes always this happy when he was a child, or had they lost a little of their shine over the years? The years he was called unwanted, a bastard, a motherless child, a half-foreigner, an outsider.

_But, _she realized, _Tamaki-senpai must have felt very alone, but everyone has always loved him. It's because of him that we're all here, and that the only thing the twins destroy now is napkins, and not hearts. And that Kyouya-senpai feels free to even__** be**__ here. The only reason that I've…_

"Don't you want to play, Haruhi?"

The flaming napkin had been picked up and properly disposed of (doused by the water of a flower vase) by Kyouya.

"No, thank you," Haruhi said, with the taste of what was to happen on her tongue, "I don't want to –"

"Haruhi. Another fifteen thousand yen to your debt."

_Family of five, happily dysfunctional…_


End file.
